Just Mohabbat

The rain had been falling for over an hour, not in a rush, not in anger, just steadily. Like it knew what it was doing. I was walking with soaked shoes, not caring where the water was collecting or how much of my shirt was sticking to my skin. She was ahead of me, stepping into puddles on purpose.

We weren’t talking much. That kind of rain didn’t need words. The umbrella was in her hand, tilted completely to her side. I hadn’t asked for space under it. Maybe I liked getting wet more than I had admitted.

Her hair was dripping in slow intervals. Every few steps, she would turn slightly, not enough to face me, but just enough to know I was still there. I could see her adjusting the umbrella again and again, failing to keep it steady. I knew she wanted me under it. But she wasn’t going to ask.

At one turn, near the temple wall where the plaster always peeled in long strips, she suddenly stopped. I was looking at the water pooling near my feet and didn’t notice in time. I bumped into her, not hard, just enough for her shoulder to rest briefly against my chest.

She didn’t flinch.

She stayed there for a second, and then turned around, slowly.

She was looking right at me now. Not smiling. Not serious either. Just full. Like something had been swelling in her all evening and couldn’t wait anymore.

I was about to ask what happened, maybe tease her about stopping like that, but she didn’t let me.

She raised her hand like she was making a call, with her thumb and pinky out, and said in a voice louder than the rain,

“Hello? Main Delhi bol rahi hoon... vo ladki, vo barish mei nahane wali... Maddy se baat karni hai.”

I stared at her.

For a second, the rain felt quieter.

She wasn’t imitating the line. She was living it. Her eyes were steady. Her voice was clear. She wasn’t acting. She was announcing.

I knew this moment meant something to her. Not because it was dramatic, but because it wasn’t. She was drenched. The umbrella was half-slipping from her grip. Her lips were trembling slightly, not from cold, but from the weight of what she was about to say.

She stepped closer, the edge of the umbrella brushing against my cheek, and added,

“Maddy, sun rahe ho? Main tumse pyaar karti hoon. Aur mujhe bas itna kehna tha ki… tumhare bina bhi sab thik tha, lekin tumhare saath sab poora lagta hai.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. The words were already somewhere inside me, but hers had taken up all the space.

Her dupatta was stuck to her arm. Her shoes were squeaking with every small movement. Her kajal had smudged a little, and still, she had never looked more certain.

She held out the umbrella then, offering it to me. Not to share, but to hold. Her hands were full with whatever she had just said, and whatever I hadn’t said yet.

I took it.

And then, before the umbrella even reached above us, I stepped forward and kissed her.

Not like in stories. No cinematic pause. No dramatic thunder.

Just one soft second of truth, forehead to forehead, breath to breath, skin warmed by rain.

The space between us was non-existent.

And the rain kept falling, not louder, not softer.

Just like it was blessing us, without making a show of it.